


Cry

by Icarusdusoleil



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarusdusoleil/pseuds/Icarusdusoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hasn't cried since the fire. And he didn't want to cry... especially not in front of Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot takes place somewhere around Season 1 and I wrote it September 20, 2012.

Derek hadn’t cried since the fire.

               He remembered sobbing hysterically as Laura dragged him away from the scene. He could barely breathe or see because of the smoke pouring out of the house. He couldn’t even walk properly and Laura had to use all of her strength to pull him away from the house and shove him into the Camaro. And Derek couldn’t do anything but hold his head in his hands and cry uncontrollably.

               He knew what happened. He knew who did it. He knew who helped. He knew everything. And it was his fault. He could have done something about it… but he didn’t see it coming. He should have. It was his fault.

               And he never told Laura.

               For the longest time, Derek was terrified that she somehow knew. He was terrified that one day, Laura would turn to him and say that she knew all about his fling with Kate and she would just reaffirm his fears—that the fire was _his_ fault. He was terrified that Laura would leave him. But Laura never knew and Laura never left him.

               Laura was much stronger than Derek was. She was a born leader and Derek idolised her. She was _his_ Alpha and Derek never wanted to think about what would happen if he lost her. The very idea scared him too much. So the siblings stuck close together, through thick and thin.

               Things started to go better a little over a year after the fire. After laying low for a while, Laura managed to form a small, loyal pack. Things were perfect. Derek felt safe for the first time in a long time. They finally had a family again.

               Then, the Argents found them. It was a miserably cold, rainy day in the middle of January. It had been three years since the fire. Somehow, they were ambushed and Laura’s pack was slaughtered.  Derek, Laura, and three other members managed to escape.

               They ran until they were in the next state and the Camaro was out of gas. One of the wolves died of the bullet wound during the drive and they had to throw him out of the car. They had no time to bury him. Laura was dangerously quiet after he died. Derek knew what her silence meant—she was angry. Angrier than he had seen her since the for a long time. She didn’t cry either.

               The next time the Argents found them, five years had passed since the fire. Laura’s small pack never settled. The Argents had been hot on their heels and they couldn’t find a place to stay for longer than a week. The younger subordinate died early in the year of pneumonia that they couldn’t get treated and the older wolf left the pack. Derek found his body tied to a tree a few days later. He was cut in half.

               Just shy of six years after the fire, the pack was down to just Laura and Derek again. The Alpha and her Beta. They were tired of running. Derek almost wanted to give up, but Laura kept at it. They drove a lot and stole a lot, just to stay alive. It wasn’t a glamorous life.

               They had returned to California for the first time since they ran from Beacon Hills, but they were still six hours from their home. As Laura was getting a meager breakfast of petrol station coffee and hostess cakes, Derek fished a newspaper from a garbage can. The headline was troublesome.

               COUGAR ATTACK IN BEACON HILLS.

               The photograph underneath showed a man laying on a forest floor—his throat and chest were ripped open. That wasn’t the work of a cougar. It was something bigger and meaner and Derek knew exactly what it was. He frowned as he read the article and didn’t notice when Laura walked up to him, with two cups of steaming decaf coffee.

               “What’s with the look?” Derek jumped and Laura raised her eyebrow. She handed him a cup, “Getting kinda jumpy.”

               He ignored her jibe and handed her the newspaper, pointing to the large picture on the first page, “That’s definitely not a cougar attack.”

               Laura’s eyebrows shot up. She put her cup on the top of the car and quietly read the article. Derek took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like overly sweet cigarette smoke and gasoline. Laura always put in too much sugar.

               “No… definitely not a cougar. Is there a new pack in Beacon Hills?” She said thoughtfully after finishing the article.

               Derek shrugged.

               “Is that a spiral?” She asked suddenly and squinted at the photograph. Derek leaned over her shoulder and peered at it.

               There was a spiral. In the leaves, just barely noticeable to the left side of the man. He straightened and looked at her. She crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into the garbage can. Laura contemplated her coffee, still steaming on the roof of the car, then glanced at her younger brother.

               “Derek,” She began. Derek knew what she was thinking. He opened his mouth to object, but she held up her hand to stop him and said, “I have to go back.”

               Derek shook his head. “No, Laura, did you forget that we have hunters breathing down the backs of our necks? If we go back, they’ll know. We just lost them. If we go back h—” He paused. He couldn’t bear to call it home anymore. They had no home. They lost it six years ago. “If we go back to Beacon Hills, the hunters will find us and they will _kill_ us, Laura.”

               Laura wasn’t listening. She pulled a map out of the glove compartment of the Camaro, unfolded it, and began to study it.

               “ _Laura_ ,” Derek raised his voice. She ignored him and he continued, “Laura, let’s go somewhere else. Leave it behind. Let’s go to Canada or Mexico or _somewhere_ where they won’t find us. Let’s sell the car and buy tickets to Europe or something.”

               Laura gave him a sharp look and her eyes flashed red. Derek swallowed and looked down meekly, “Please… just let it go…”

                His older sister—his _alpha_ shook her head, “No. I have to go back to Beacon Hills… just to check it out. Get some information. I want to know what’s happening.”

               Derek raised his gaze, searching for something to say. He finally managed, “Just you?”

               She gave him a soft smile and cupped his cheek in her hand. Her eyes were watery. “Just me, Der. You’re going to take the Camaro and drive north. Drive to Canada like you want to. Take the back roads and only stop when you need to.”

               He felt hurt, but she continued, “I’m going back to Beacon Hills. I’ll call and give you updates. I’ll stay out of trouble, I promise. If there’s any sign of the Argents or any other hunter, I’ll get the hell out of there. Same goes for you. Keep those bastards off of your tail. We’ll meet up again soon. I promise, Der. And don’t break my car or I’ll break you.”

               “Laura…”

               She kissed him on his forehead, pulled her bag from the trunk, folded up the map, and left him with the car. He watched her walk until he couldn’t see her anymore. Then he turned to the Camaro and noticed her cup of coffee, now cold, still sitting on the roof of the car.

               He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But he didn’t cry.

               It was exactly six years after the fire when Derek got to Canada. That was the same day that Laura didn’t call. She called every single day since they parted ways and never missed a day. Except for that day.

               Derek had parked underneath a cluster of trees off the side of the road and paced nervously, the collar of his jacket turned up against the light drizzle of rain. It was dark and cars only passed by every so often. Derek was alone. Fretting, he finally sat on the hood of the car and stared at his cell phone, willing it to ring. It never did.

               So he called her.

               She didn’t pick up.

               He tried again twenty minutes later.

               She still didn’t pick up.

               Derek kicked the car and then cursed loudly when he realised that he dented it.

               He tried to tell himself to relax. Laura was busy. Nothing bad happened. She just couldn’t pick up the phone at the moment. He was just overreacting.

               And then he felt it. He knew the feeling. He knew the ache, deep in his chest. It was like a breath being let out after being held to long, like a candle flickering and then going out because of the smallest gust of wind. He knew exactly what it meant. He already felt it twice in his life.

               The first time was when he was three—his grandfather was lying in a bed, whispering something that Derek couldn’t hear and holding his dad’s hand. And then Derek felt something, deep in his chest, like an ache. He didn’t know what it was then, but it hurt, so he started crying. His mother picked him up and shushing him and wiping away his tears. When Derek turned to look back at his grandpa, the old man’s eyes were closed. His mother’s eyes were glowing bright red.

               The second time he felt it, Derek was sixteen—he was crying and choking on smoke. He could barely see and he was stumbling out of the house, coughing and wanting to die. He stumbled off the burning wood porch and fell face first into wet mud and leaves. He heard Laura’s voice and felt her hand grasp his. She pulled him to his feet and together, they stumbled away from their blazing house. She shoved him into the car and then he felt it… the same deep ache in the chest. He cried harder and Laura slid into the driver’s seat next to him. Derek saw Laura turn her head towards him, and through eyes full of tears, he saw a flash of red.

               Now, Derek felt the ache again. He fell to his knees, his eyes were open wide and he was gasping for air. He knew what happened. There was no question.

               Laura was dead.

               Derek whirled around and looked in the side-mirror of the car. He stared at his eyes… they were blue. Still blue. And he wasn’t crying. Derek shouted out in rage and slammed his fist into the ground. His hand throbbed for a moment, then the cuts on his knuckles were already knitting together and healing.

               Derek almost drove straight through to Beacon Hills. He had to stop to fill up with petrol a couple of times, but never paused to sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t let himself sleep. He didn’t want the dreams.

               Derek was alone. Laura was dead. He found her body... half of it at least. He buried her under a spiral. He wanted vengeance. He was alone, he was angry.

               And he was terrified.

               Months passed and Derek’s life became a little bit unreal. The Argents tracked him—or was it Laura?—back to Beacon Hills and they were still trying to kill him; Derek had to deal with a new, young werewolf and a bunch of other teenagers; and there was a crazy, unknown Alpha terrorising Beacon Hills. Derek had no time to grieve for his sister. He wouldn’t let himself grieve. It made it easier to be angry.

               Sometimes, though, it was hard to keep it all in. The littlest things would make him think of her. Just looking at the Camaro was hard sometimes. Or he couldn’t drink petrol station coffee anymore, because it made him think of her. Or even just seeing her number in his phone because he couldn’t bear to delete it and let her totally go. It was the littlest things that made him think of her and his eyes would water and his would head spin.

               But he wouldn’t let himself cry.

               Until one day. He tried to fight the tears, but it was just too much. It was an accident. He didn’t mean for it to happen. Least of all in front of that kid—Stiles.

               Derek had just finished exercising when he heard the familiar sound of the kid’s jeep rumbling up to the house. Derek quickly washed his face and put on a shirt. Stiles knocked on his door not too long later. Derek opened the door and glared at the teen, purposefully showing his fangs, “What?”

               Derek was slightly disappointed when Stiles didn’t flinch or even bat an eye. Stiles did look a little bit more serious than usual and he was holding a plastic file box under his arm. Derek narrowed his eyes.

               “Hey, uh,” Stiles began, “I found this at the station. I, er, you should probably have it.”

               He offered the box to Derek, who took it tentatively. The box was old and dusty, and he could faintly smell the scent of burnt paper. “What is it?”

               Stiles rubbed his head, “I was poking around the police station, you know, looking for stuff… and I found it. A couple of years ago, a bunch of people were vandalising your house, so the police went through it again and tried to scare them all off. During one of the searches, they found… these.”

               Derek stared at Stiles for a second, before turning his gaze to the box and opened it. The scent of burnt paper was much stronger. He slowly and carefully pulled out one of the pieces of paper… it was a photograph. He stared at it, wide eyed and not entirely sure what emotion he was feeling, other than shock. The photograph was the last family portrait that they took. It was three months before the fire happened. And they all looked so… happy.

               Stiles spoke and Derek jumped slightly. “The police tried to preserve them as much as possible. But after a while, the photographs were just shoved underneath piles of paperwork and forgotten. I found them and… I guess I thought you should have them.”

               Derek awkwardly held the box in his left arm, the family portrait in his right hand, and stared at Stiles over both of them. He could feel his throat getting tighter and his eyes were watering.

               _Not now. Why now?_

               Derek felt a hot tear race down his cheek and he stepped backwards, trying to distance himself from Stiles. He didn’t want to cry. He couldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry. Not in front of Stiles. _Especially_ not in front of Stiles. Of all people.

               But he couldn’t stop it. He cried. He sobbed, actually. It definitely wasn’t one of his finer moments.

               His knees buckled and he dropped the box, photographs slid across the burnt floorboards and Derek cried over all of the memories. He hunched his shoulders and buried his face in his hands. He was acutely aware of Stiles still standing awkwardly in the doorway, unsure what to do with an emotional werewolf who is sobbing and prone to angry and violent outbursts. But Derek couldn’t stop crying. Six years worth of bottled emotions were just pouring out of him. And it hurt.

               He didn’t know how long it was until Stiles gingerly picked his way over to Derek, trying to avoid the damaged photographs and creaky floorboards. He didn’t know how long it was until Stiles put his arm around Derek’s shoulders. And he didn’t know how long it was that Derek cried and Stiles silently hugged this man that he barely knew and was very afraid of.

               But goddamn, it felt good to be hugged. It felt good for somebody to be next to him and hold him. Derek didn’t feel so alone anymore.

               His sobs finally turned to heaving breaths and cursing. “Fuck… fuck… fuck it all… fuck…”

               He was a mess. A sweaty, snotty, teary mess. No, it definitely was _not_ one of his finer moments. Derek lost all composure. And he was embarrassed. _Really_ embarrassed.

               “Fuck.”

               There was a long moment of silence. Stiles was still hugging Derek and Derek was still bent over the photos, clutching the sides of his head. And even though he was extremely self-conscious, the werewolf almost didn’t want to move. Stiles was silent. His breathing was extremely calm and his heart beat was slow and even. Derek wondered what the kid was thinking.

               Derek pulled away and didn’t look at Stiles’ face. Without a word, he began gathering the photographs. Stiles helped him. Together, they arranged the photographs into a neat pile and then put them back into the box. And with that, they looked at each other for a moment and then, without a word, Stiles left.

               Derek was alone again. He was tired and emotionally drained, but he didn’t feel quite as empty.

               Three weeks passed before Derek got the chance to talk to Stiles about it. Scott was always there and Derek really did not want to mention what happened to the younger werewolf—and, for some reason, he trusted that Stiles didn’t say anything.

               They were all at Stiles’ house—the Sherriff wasn’t home—and they were discussing the upcoming full moon. Scott had to run and pick his mother up from work, but he would return shortly. That left Derek and Stiles alone.

               Stiles busied himself with homework… or was it some random subject that suddenly interested him that day? Derek couldn’t tell. But he was facing away from Derek and engrossed in his computer. Derek sat awkwardly at the foot of Stiles’ bed.

               He cleared his throat, “Hey… uh…”

               “Don’t worry about it,” Stiles said quietly, without turning around, “I know how you feel. Well, kinda.” Stiles turned his head slightly to look at Derek, his chin resting on the palm of his left hand.

               Derek looked down at his hands then back to Stiles, who had turned back to his computer. This boy was afraid of him, they had nothing in common other than Scott, yet somehow they reached an understanding. They were on common ground now and Stiles was probably the closest person that Derek got to having a _friend._

               Derek sighed and closed his eyes. He could hear Scott’s car outside. Stiles continued to type on his computer and Scott opened the front door and came in. Derek whispered, “Thank you.” And Scott ran up the stairs. Stiles whispered back, “Any time.” And Scott burst into the room.

               “Hey, I’m back. Sorry that took so long,” Scott tossed his backpack in the corner and leaned over Stiles and the computer, “Alright, let’s get back to work.”


End file.
